


artifice

by doomcake



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Guilty Athos, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Mission Fic, Mission Gone Wrong, Sexual Content, Whump, but it's not super explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2015-02-15
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:54:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2101641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doomcake/pseuds/doomcake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos, Porthos, Aramis and d’Artagnan investigate the murder of a court-favored vicomte: a mission that inevitably goes sideways. (Or, in which Athos and Aramis are both idiots after they've been at odds, yet again.)</p><p>Takes place post-season/series 1, pre-season/series 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. d'Artagnan

**Author's Note:**

> THIS FANDOM IS SERIOUSLY THE BEST. ♥!!
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> Okay so I have no idea where this came from, and why it decided it wanted to be multiple parts instead of a one-shot. (Yes, writing sometimes takes on a mind of its own.) Everyone wanted their own section, so I indulged. It also ended up with m/f porn, which honestly was NOT the original plan, but it kind of worked its way into the story. And then I did some researchy things, and wordcount started shooting up, and now we have this.
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> I have most of this written, but wanted to get the first two completed parts of it up before I leave for the weekend. (I'm sorry in advance for the cliffhanger!) The chapters aren't terribly long, but felt better separated. Hopefully I'll have more up early next week, barring interruptions from family/work.
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> I also apologize in advance for typos or mistakes, this is pretty much fresh off the word processor, which isn't my usual modus operandi, but I would rather get posting than let projects stall at this stage.
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> Feel free to let me know what you think! *ducks and hides*

❧

Paris is damp, wet, grey and miserably cold in the winter, d’Artagnan thinks bitterly as he pulls his cape tightly about his shoulders. They’ve been chasing information across Paris all day now, trying to track down information about the recent murder of a vicomte in the King’s court. D’Artagnan doesn’t remember the vicomte’s full title, but he does know that the King was rather upset and ordered Treville to have his finest musketeers bring the murderer to justice.  
  
Now, they’re following a raggedy old man who insists he’s seen the vicomte before—and often—at a tavern near the entrance of the Court of Miracles. The tavern looks a little run down on the outside, but has a fine interior, they discover as they duck inside.  
  
“There,” the old man says in a hushed voice, pointing across the lobby. “That’s the woman he’s been seeing this past week.”  
  
D’Artagnan squints across the dim room, sensing that his three companions are doing the same. There is a woman indeed, sitting across the lobby at the bar, back turned. Several deliberate, elegantly long blond curls tumble down the center of her back from an elaborate hairstyle, her bright hair a sharp contrast to her forest green cloak. With her back turned, it’s difficult to determine her age or her aesthetic appeal, but from what d’Artagnan can see, she is delicately shaped and petite.  
  
“Thank you for your assistance,” Athos says, pressing a coin into their guide’s filthy hand. The man shoots a toothless grin at him before hobbling out of the tavern, eyeing the coin happily.  
  
“Who do you think she is?” d’Artagnan asks. They settle at a table in a darker corner of the dining area.  
  
“She’s ’is mistress, of course,” Porthos replies lowly. “Or one of ’em. The vicomte ’ad a reputation for bein’ a bit of a ladies man.”  
  
“Are you sure she isn’t simply a whore?” Aramis asks. “She’s got enough makeup on for it.”  
  
“Perhaps you should go find out,” Athos suggests wryly.  
  
It takes all of ten seconds for d’Artagnan to realize what Athos is suggesting, and he nearly chokes on his surprise. “Athos, truly you’re not suggesting—”  
  
“She may have been the vicomte’s consort. Aramis aims high, so she should _almost_ be up to his usual standards,” Athos says, though there’s a hint of an edge to his voice that has d’Artagnan frowning.  
  
Aramis and Athos lock gazes with unreadable expressions, but by the way the tension between them practically crackles in the air, d’Artagnan knows it isn’t a healthy interaction. He feels like he’s missing something important here, and it makes him shift uncomfortably in his seat. Porthos’ eyes narrow; apparently he noticed as well, but Aramis suddenly breaks up the tense moment with a bright smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  
  
“Perhaps it’s not such a bad idea after all,” he says lightly, rising to his feet. “Besides, I need to get us some drinks, or we’ll start to stick out too much.”  
  
Porthos opens his mouth to say something, but before the words come out, Aramis is already halfway across the room. He directs a sharp gaze to Athos, who seems content to stare at Aramis’ back coldly rather than acknowledge the other two musketeers sitting at the table with him.  
  
“Athos, what was that about?” Porthos demands, keeping his voice low.  
  
“We need information, our only lead happens to be a woman, and I saw an opportunity for Aramis to exercise his skills,” Athos replies coolly. “Unless you have a better idea?”  
  
Porthos looks like he wants to call Athos on his bullshit, but he seems to think better of it and leans back in his chair instead, crossing his arms irritably and shaking his head. It’s unusual to see his friends disagree, and it deeply unsettles d’Artagnan. It simply doesn’t feel right, especially if it’s not some pre-meditated argument as part of a mission. And it isn’t, not in this case. He knows these men well enough now to be able to tell the difference.  
  
Instead of watching Porthos glare at the side of Athos’ head, d’Artagnan opts to watch Aramis from across the room. With three drinks spread in front of him, he’s already deeply engaged in conversation with the woman at the bar, his head tilted just so with just the right degree of a smile on his face. Aramis is charming, to be sure, but there is something off about the expression on the woman’s face. With her head now partially turned, d’Artagnan can see that she is young and pretty—makeup notwithstanding (Aramis had been right on that count). The expression on her face is one of interest and attraction, but there’s something slightly off about the way she holds herself.  
  
He’s seen that look before, but he can’t remember where, or in what context.  
  
Aramis turns to his friends with an apologetic grin, holding up a bottle of wine before he turns to say something to the woman. She smiles shyly and nods, and Aramis brings the drinks over to his friends.  
  
“I have gained an audience with one Mademoiselle Charlotte Vasser,” Aramis announces with a grin and a wink, shooting Athos a pointed glance so quickly d’Artagnan wonders if he imagined it. “You should reserve a room for the evening, as I will be otherwise occupied.”  
  
Porthos snorts and says, “Don’t enjoy it too much, yeah?”  
  
“Remember, you need to consider this part of your work,” Athos says carefully, keeping his voice low.  
  
“The things we must do for King and Country,” Aramis replies dramatically, bowing low with a flourish of his hand. “ _Bon soir,_ _mes amis_.”  
  
D’Artagnan watches him go, gut churning. “Are you sure it’s okay to just let him go like that?” he asks, once he sees that Aramis has happily escorted Charlotte upstairs. “You do realize what he intends to do with that young woman, do you not?”  
  
“Charming the ladies is Aramis’ specialty,” Porthos explains with a broad grin. “He’ll be fine.”  
  
“He is the best suited for this kind of information gathering,” Athos concedes, swirling wine slowly around in his glass. “He will be back in the morning with any information he can gather, then we’ll be on our way.”  
  
Gentlemanly senses still unappeased, d’Artagnan lets the matter drop anyway with a sigh. Just because they’re his friends doesn’t mean he has to condone their actions.

❧


	2. Aramis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sexual content warning for this chapter, folks!

❧

The shy, demure first impression diminishes the moment the door Charlotte’s room closes shut behind them. Before Aramis can react, she is already leaning forward, knocking his hat clean off his head and capturing his lips with hers even while her deft fingers work to undo the buttons of his leather jacket. Not that this is an unpleasant surprise, but he hasn’t even looked at another woman since—  
  
 _Now is not the time to be thinking of that_ , he admonishes himself, focusing on the woman in front of him. He has a job to do here, and he isn’t going to let himself fail. And it doesn’t hurt that the lady is pretty, this time.  
  
Pulling away from her lips for breath, he grins down at her breathlessly. “I thought we came in here to talk?” his voice goes a little higher than he means it to when she presses her body flush against his. He can feel her soft curves against his chest, her warm breath ghosting against the stubble on his neck and chin and chasing away the chill of the cold, damp Parisian winter.  
  
Her eyelids droop slowly, invitingly as she leans back forward to whisper in his ear. “What good is talking when we both know this is what it’ll lead to?” she says, pushing the shoulders of his jacket (pauldron still attached) off his back, and letting it drop to the floor.  
  
“Eager, are we?” he asks, removing his suspenders and shirt of his own accord, her hands ghosting over his bared skin.  
  
She smiles prettily as she tugs at the belts and sash tied about his waist. The sword and main gauche clatter to the floor in their scabbards, soon followed by Aramis’ pouch and remaining belts. In the back of his mind, he wonders if this might be a bad idea after all, but her insistent hands are already working at the buttons of his breeches.  
  
“I like to think of it as cutting to the chase,” she says, palming him through his smallclothes. All rational thought leaves his mind.  
  
He makes quick work of her cloak and bodice, and as the dress slides from her shoulders, he admires the smooth, pale skin beneath. “I like a woman who is direct,” he replies easily, running his hands over her bared shoulders as he guides her towards the bed.  
  
Their lovemaking is passionate and fierce. She is as fiery a lover as she promised the moment she took the initiative, and he finds himself (at times) struggling to keep up. She is full of interesting ideas when it comes to positions, and he gladly goes along with her lead. He takes her on the bed twice, up against the wall once, and finally finds himself being pressed into the floor so she can ride him. It feels all kinds of wrong, because what they’re doing might be considered heresy to some of the more conservative members of society, but it feels so _right_ that he doesn’t dare question it.  
  
When he’d risen to Athos’ obvious challenge, this certainly hadn’t been what he was expecting. It’s no wonder that the vicomte de Melun chose to visit this woman so frequently, if the old man’s accounts were accurate.  
  
Ah, and speaking of the vicomte—  
  
The thought is derailed as she grinds down on him from above, his mind sparking with pleasure as he completes inside of her with a prayer on his lips. Spent, he draws his forearm across his sweating forehead, breathing heavily as she leans into his chest. He wraps an arm around her waist and grins up at her.  
  
“You, mademoiselle, are possibly the most skilled lover I have ever encountered,” he says, panting heavily around the flattery.  
  
She is breathing as heavily as he is over him. With a soft sigh, she replies, “I had an excellent teacher.”  
  
Aramis raises an eyebrow at that. “He must have been an interesting man, to teach you these things so skillfully,” he says, fishing.  
  
“ _She_ ,” Charlotte corrects him, shifting so that her face is inches away from Aramis’. He feels his eyebrows rise higher, and her grin is almost wolfish in its daring. “Does that disgust you?”  
  
“Not at all,” he says, almost too quickly. Recovering, he smiles as gently as he can manage. “Just surprising.”  
  
“Hmm, that’s what Guillaume said, too,” she murmurs thoughtfully. “All the others thought it was perverse and unnatural.”  
  
 _Guillaume de Villars, vicomte de Melun_ , Aramis’ mind supplies. He’s finally on to something.  
  
“So I don’t have the pleasure of being the first to appreciate your skill?” Aramis asks coyly.  
  
She shoves at his shoulders playfully. “You knew what you were getting into, Monsieur.”  
  
“This Guillaume fellow, he wasn’t as charming as I was, was he?”  
  
“Monsieur! You presume too much,” she says, the smile on her face belying the appalled tone of her voice. The smile fades at the edges, though, taking on a sad, wistful expression. “Guillaume was a wonderful lover.”  
  
 _Ah_ , now he’s getting somewhere. “Was?”  
  
Something in her expression shifts, and if Aramis isn’t mistaken, there’s a hint of regret flickering in her eyes. It’s such a brief glance into the woman, though, that Aramis doesn’t have time to interpret it.  
  
“It’s no matter,” she says softly, the sadness quickly being replaced with a mischievous smile. “I may have found a suitable replacement.”  
  
“Oh?” Aramis plays along, allowing a grin to spread across his face. “And how is this… _replacement_ doing so far?”  
  
She presses her hips into him again. “We shall find out in a moment,” she says conspiratorially.  
  
Aramis groans as the fire in the pit of his belly stirs back to life at Charlotte’s eager encouragement. “You, my dear, are insatiable.”  
  
The second time he finishes, it’s almost painful, it’s so powerful. He could get used to this position, with Charlotte riding out her own pleasure above him. He contents himself with watching her face as she finds a rhythm that has her gasping in delight.  
  
“And now? Am I fit to compare to the vicomte?” he asks as she finds her own completion.  
  
Her eyes shoot wide open, and he doesn’t even realize his mistake until he hears the telltale sound of metal sliding out of a scabbard. Instinct dulled and sluggish from the exhausting pleasure of Charlotte’s company, he can’t react fast enough to guard himself as her hand flies over his mouth, and the point of his own main gauche plunges deep into his exposed abdomen.  
  
Pain sparks red-hot across his vision, and he can’t draw enough breath to gasp around her hand. Lungs straining furiously against the agony throbbing in his gut, dark spots invade his line of sight, streaking across Charlotte’s apologetic face.  
  
 _“I’m sorry, I really am—but now I can’t let you live.”_  
  
It’s the last thing he hears before the darkness viciously pulls him under.  
  


❧

_tbc..._


	3. Porthos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies in advance for stray typos!

For the first time in a long time, Porthos isn’t the loudest one snoring—that honor currently goes to Athos. Porthos doesn’t typically call himself the ‘morning person’ type, but he woke suddenly and is unable to go back to sleep. He doesn’t carry a pocket watch like Athos does, but by his estimation of the shadows coming from the window, it’s probably coming close to five in the morning. Unsure if it’s Athos’ snoring, d’Artagnan’s restless turning, or the sense that something is off in his gut that snapped him awake, Porthos wonders when it will be acceptable to appear downstairs for breakfast. Or possibly a drink. He hates waiting.   
  
Pulling himself upright, he decides that he might as well wait downstairs, even if the tavern owners have yet to stir. It’s better than sitting around listening to the cadence of Athos’ snores, or trying to pretend that he is sleeping.   
  
The tavern lobby has a couple of early risers dotted at tables, which makes Porthos feel a little less guilty about being awake so early. Settling down at an empty table, he orders bread and cheese from the tavern owner, and a cup of warmed wine.   
  
The wine is tart, but does well to chase the chill of winter from Porthos’ fingertips as he nurses it, waiting for the bread and cheese. Over the rim of his glass, he sees a hooded woman moving quickly down the stairs, stopping only briefly to leave a small coin purse at the tavern keepers’ bar before hurrying towards the door. Squinting, Porthos’ eyes catch a hint of a blond curl from under the green cloak, and his chest constricts before he even makes the connection: it’s the woman Aramis was with the night before, the one who may have been the vicomte’s lover.   
  
Something isn’t quite right here—either Aramis is losing his touch, or perhaps he’s already headed back to their shared room. Rising to his feet, he apologizes and asks to put the bread and cheese on hold, pays for the wine, and heads back upstairs.   
  
Their room is as it was when he left: Athos, sprawled across the far bed and still making enough racket to wake the dead, and d’Artagnan still passed out in the closest bed to the door. No sign of Aramis. Porthos’ heartbeat quickens, fingertips going numb as they would before a fight, and it’s then that his instincts kick in and confirm that something _definitely_ has gone wrong. Half a lifetime on the streets of the Court has taught him to trust those instincts, and he rushes back down the stairs to find the tavern keeper, who is drying off cleaned wine glasses.   
  
“That woman who just left,” he says, almost breathlessly. “What room was she staying in?”   
  
“Oh, Mademoiselle Charlotte? Her usual room—the last one down the hall to the right,” the keeper replies. “But you’re too late, she’s already gone.”   
  
“I’m not looking for her,” Porthos says, whirling to go back up the stairs. _Yet_ , his mind supplies.   
  
His heart is pounding in his ears as he goes up to the second floor, his feet nearly slipping on the wooden steps in his haste. Charging down the hallway, he knocks on the door at the end.   
  
“Aramis? Are you in there?” he demands, trying to keep his voice low enough that he doesn’t wake the neighboring guests. When he receives no answer, he knocks again. “Aramis?”   
  
His instincts are screaming at him to break down the door, so, backing up a few steps and lowering his shoulder, he does just that.   
  
The door slams open with a loud crash, and Porthos winces at the noise—but as he takes in the disarrayed state of the room, he frowns. There are glasses of spilled wine, plates with unfinished fruits and crusts of bread, articles of clothing strewn about the room, and the bedclothes are just about everywhere except _on_ the bed.   
  
“Hello?” he ventures again, voice rising in worry as he steps into the room, careful to avoid the mess on the floor by the bed as he rounds it.   
  
The sight makes his blood run cold.   
  
_“Aramis!”_   
  
Aramis is sprawled on his back, completely naked but for a wrinkled sheet cast haphazardly across his waist. His skin is almost as white as the sheet that covers him, a stark contrast to the bright red blood splattering his chest and everything around him like a grotesque painting. One of Aramis’ hands is weakly curled over his side, and the other hand is sprawled out next to him, the handle of his main gauche loosely tangled in his fingers. There is blood on the blade, too.   
  
_No, nonono—_   
  
Porthos ignores the flash of pain in his knees as he drops down next to his friend. Gently placing his head on Aramis’ chest, he sobs in relief as he hears the soft thudding of his heart. It’s almost hard to believe that Aramis is still alive, with the blood surrounding him. Porthos cups Aramis’ cheek, tapping insistently to try to rouse the injured man.   
  
“Aramis, wake up,” he commands. “Come on, you can’t do this to me—”   
  
He knows, logically, he should go get Athos and d’Artagnan, but Aramis is so pale and _there’s so much blood_ that he’s afraid that if he leaves, Aramis will breathe his last alone. When tapping doesn’t rouse Aramis, Porthos resorts to lightly slapping his face.   
  
“Open your eyes,” he says, not liking the way his voice is wavering around the words. “Please, Aramis—you need to wake up!”   
  
Aramis flinches and moans, eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids as he struggles to open them.   
  
“That’s it, come on,” Porthos encourages.   
  
Aramis’ eyelashes flutter and blink, parting only a fraction as he breathes in harshly through his nose—and then his eyes open wide in shock for a split second before they squeeze back shut, an agonized groan escaping his lips. His back arches, hand twitching as it tries to free itself from the handle of the main gauche, and he starts to curl in on himself.   
  
“Aramis!” Porthos holds his shoulders down, the small shred of relief vanishing as he watches his friend struggle against the pain. “Aramis, hold still, you’re really badly hurt.”   
  
“P-Porth…os?” Aramis struggles horribly to get the words out, and they’re immediately followed by a hiss and another moan. “ _H-Hurts_.”   
  
“Yeah, yeah I know,” Porthos says, smoothing his palm against Aramis’ cheek. “Try not to talk, okay?”   
  
Aramis’ chest convulses as he draws in several hitching breaths, the wound is still sluggishly oozing blood under his limp fingers, and Porthos is trying hard not to panic. Does he put pressure on the injury? He thinks he should, but he’s almost afraid to hurt Aramis more. The injury will definitely need stitches, but Porthos doesn’t know the first thing about proper treatment prior to stitching, because every time he’s needed them, Athos knocks him out and Aramis takes care of it all. Now that Aramis is the one bleeding, Porthos is left feeling helpless and utterly useless, and he thinks he rather hatesit. He wishes Athos was here to help calm him down.   
  
“Sir, is everything—” the words are cut off with a sharp gasp. Porthos’ head snaps around to see the innkeeper’s face go pale with shock, eyes wide and accusing in Porthos’ direction.   
  
Porthos knows he has to react quickly to avoid the inevitable accusation he knows is heading his way. “He’s my friend,” he explains. “Look—I need to get my other two friends in here, they’re still in our room down the hall. I don’t want to leave him, can you…?”   
  
“How do I know you’re not going to get up and leave as soon as I go?” the innkeeper asks suspiciously. “For all I know, you could be the one that’s trying to murder him.”   
  
“I swear to you on my honor as a Musketeer,” Porthos pleads. “This man is another Musketeer, and he needs help fast, or he’ll die—and I just can’t allow it.”   
  
The innkeeper regards him warily for a few agonizing seconds, but something in Porthos’ expression must give the innkeeper enough assurance of his sincerity that he relents. “Okay,” he says, turning.   
  
“Thank you—their names are Athos and d’Artagnan, tell them Porthos sent you,” Porthos says.   
  
With a quick nod, the innkeeper disappears, and Porthos turns back to Aramis. Grabbing the edge of the sheet, he wads it up and moves Aramis’ hand out of the way, pressing the cloth down on the injury. Aramis struggles weakly with a cut-off cry, but Porthos focuses in and doesn’t let up. He starts when he realizes that Aramis’ eyes are partly open, glassed over with pain and confusion.   
  
“Hey,” Porthos says softly, freeing one hand and rubbing his thumb along Aramis’ cheekbone. “We’re going to get you looked after, all right? Just stay with me.”   
  
Aramis struggles to speak, Adam’s apple bobbing as he gasps in a breath, but the words seem to stick in his throat. Porthos shushes him gently.   
  
“Ch- _Charlotte_ ,” Aramis rasps. Sucking in another breath harshly with a wince, he swallows thickly and adds, “m-murder.”   
  
“Don’t speak, you’re wasting energy,” Porthos says. His mind is whirling, but the thoughts are interrupted when Athos and d’Artagnan burst into the room, the worried innkeeper hovering close behind. They pause for a moment before rushing to Porthos’ side.   
  
“Aramis!” d’Artagnan cries, stricken. Turning to Porthos, he asks, “What happened?”   
  
Porthos shakes his head sadly. “I… I don’t know exactly, but I think the woman he was with stabbed him and took off.”   
  
D’Artagnan’s expression grows stormy.   
  
“We’ll need to call for a surgeon,” Athos says, placing a hand on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “This is beyond any of our skill.” He turns to the innkeeper. “We will need to move our things to this room; I’m afraid that moving him will cause irreparable damage. Bill me for the difference.”   
  
The innkeeper nods and asks, “Do you need me to send a message?”   
  
“Yes. I need you to take a message to Captain Treville at the Musketeer’s garrison. Can you see to it?”   
  
Porthos hears the innkeeper agree and leave, but everything around him is fading at the edges as he focuses in on Aramis’ labored breathing and keeping pressure on the wound. At some point, the Aramis’ eyes had closed again. He grasps one of Aramis’ hands, surprised at how cold his fingers are, and holds it tightly to his chest. Anger ripples through him as his sluggish mind puts the pieces together. The clothes strewn about the room. The food and wine. Aramis naked, bleeding on the floor—that woman they’d wanted information from had likely murdered the vicomte, and had seduced Aramis before she stabbed him.   
  
“Porthos,” Athos says evenly, placing a hand on Porthos’ shoulder, “we’re going to need to move him to the bed.”   
  
Porthos numbly follow Athos’ orders, trying to shove the sound of Aramis’ pained gasps to the back of his head as he helps Athos move him as gently as they can. The innkeeper’s wife brings in a bucket of water and some strips of cloth, and Porthos faintly recognizes Athos thanking her. He’s looking at the blood on his hands instead, dark thoughts swirling in his mind.   
  
“Porthos—I need you to focus,” Athos says sternly. “What did Aramis tell you?”   
  
Porthos is already seeing red as he answers, “That woman—Charlotte, I think she killed the vicomte, and I think she tried to kill Aramis, too, when he figured it out.”   
  
Athos’ expression is stony as he presses one of the spare cloths to Aramis’ wound, but Porthos knows him well enough to see that he’s paler than usual. He’s just as worried as Porthos is that this mission may claim the life of their friend.   
  
“Cover his legs and groin,” Athos instructs, moving Porthos’ hands to the sodden linen over the injury, having him take over. “Keep him warm, and keep pressure on the wound. I’m going to get Aramis’ medical supplies.”   
  
Athos storms out of the room as Porthos shifts the blankets around so that the covers go up to Aramis’ waist. He takes a clean strip of cloth, folds it up, and with a murmured apology, presses it into the injury again. Aramis’ pained cry sends another stab of anger through his gut.   
  
Whoever that Charlotte woman is, she’s dead, he decides.

❧


	4. Athos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I did a little researching on 1600s medicine a few chapters too late, and realized that without some serious luck, Aramis would probably be dead. Oops, this is what I get for writing/posting off the cuff! I hope you'll suspend some belief on poor Aramis' behalf here. I did what I could to salvage my dignity on this chapter, but oh well.

Athos swirls thick, red wine around the murky glass, watching as the legs slowly trail down to the line of liquid in the bottom. He is on his third bottle of wine (not that he’s counting), but it does nothing to drown out the vicious voices in the back of his mind. It doesn’t do anything to help him forget that his friend is upstairs, fighting for his life as the surgeon works on him. Nor does it do anything to assuage the knot of bitter guilt coiled tightly in his gut. He takes a sip and scowls, trying to derail his own thoughts as he focuses in on how dry and cheap this wine tastes.  
  
Porthos suddenly staggers down the stairs into the lobby, and after looking around, he nods as his gaze finds Athos’. So Aramis isn’t dead yet, or Porthos wouldn’t be so calm. He sits down next to Athos in the tavern’s dim lobby.  
  
“How is he?” Athos asks, impressed that his words don’t slur horribly.  
  
“They kicked me out a while ago,” Porthos says sullenly. “I haven’t had word since.”  
  
“Where were you, then?”  
  
“Sitting outside the door. They’re still working on him,” Porthos replies. “That’s gotta be good for something, right? Means he’s still alive.”  
  
 _For how much longer, though?_ Athos doesn’t say it aloud though, and instead of replying to Porthos, he takes another deep drink from the glass in his hand.  
  
“So how come you aren’t up there?” Porthos asks, after a moment. “You’re usually pretty calm and level-headed in a crisis.”  
  
Athos frowns at his glass, and the words are out of his mouth before he can even think to stop them: “I did this to him.”  
  
Porthos blinks in confusion and says, “Come again?”  
  
Regrets are pointless, so Athos continues speaking, despite his better judgement. “I all but dared him to pursue that woman for information, and she tried to kill him.”  
  
“Oh come now,” Porthos says, clapping a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “You know as well as I do that Aramis never needs encouragement to chase the ladies. S’just bad luck, that’s all. No way we could’a known she would try to kill ’im.”  
  
Athos shrugs off Porthos’ hand. “You don’t understand,” he insists. “Aramis hasn’t been with another woman in _months_ —hasn’t even tried to, that I know of. Not since—” His brain finally catches up with his mouth, and he cuts himself off abruptly with a click of his teeth.  
  
“Not since what?” Porthos is frowning, but instead of responding, Athos sits back and takes another drag of his wine. There’s no way he can drag Porthos into this mess too, not with what could be at stake if he found out. “Athos…”  
  
“It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.”  
  
Porthos leans forward with his elbows on the table, and Athos doesn’t even have to see his face to know that there won’t be any forgetting now. He braces himself for the tirade of questions, and he just _knows_ that he’s had too much alcohol and stress to be as discreet as he’d like. Porthos is probably going to find out today, and Athos isn’t going to be able to stop it.  
  
“You can’t tell me you’re seriously blaming yourself for what happened, are you?” Porthos asks. “There’s something else going on, isn’t there. Something you aren’t tellin’.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Athos replies stoically, though he doesn’t know why he bothers. Porthos is like a dog with a bone in these situations.  
  
“Athos—”  
  
“Porthos. It isn’t my story to tell.”  
  
Rocking back in his seat, Porthos deliberately folds his arms across his chest, eyeing Athos warily. “So if he hasn’t been seeing anyone for a while, then that can only mean one thing: Aramis slept with someone he shouldn’t have again, didn’t ’e?”  
  
Sometimes, Athos wonders why he even tries to pretend that Porthos is stupid. Because he isn’t. “I told you, it isn’t my story to tell.”  
  
“Ah, but you are involved, aren’t you.” It isn’t a question this time, and Porthos knows he’s on to something. “Let’s see, the last time you and Aramis were alone in a place with at least one woman…”  
  
This is going too far, too fast, and Athos knows that Aramis’ secret is going to get out at this rate—and if it does, it doesn’t matter if Aramis lives or dies upstairs. He’s already a dead man, and so is Athos.  
  
Porthos’ brow is furrowed in thought as he wracks his memory, but before he can make the inevitable connection, d’Artagnan stumbles down the stairs, looking worn and pale.  
  
“D’Artagnan,” Athos greets, looking for signs of grief in the young man’s face—or any clues at all, as to the fate of their friend.  
  
D’Artagnan looks a little startled to hear his name, but when his eyes meet Athos’, they’re clear. The young man nods carefully, looking grim, but not in mourning. Aramis is alive.  
  
“Here, have a seat. Let me get you a drink, lad, it looks like you need it,” Porthos says, pushing out the chair next to him and patting the wooden seat. He stands as d’Artagnan sits to get the offered drink. Turning to Athos, he says pointedly, “Don’t you think I will be forgettin’.”  
  
Athos sighs, ignoring d’Artagnan’s raised eyebrow.  
  
“So he’s still alive?” Athos asks carefully.  
  
“Just,” d’Artagnan replies tiredly. “He isn’t out of the woods yet, but he’s fighting. Hard. The surgeon is still up there, keeping an eye on him. If he makes it through the next day, he should recover with time.”  
  
“One of us should be up there with him, too,” Athos says, standing up. He ignores the pointed glare from Porthos as he leaves a small stack of coins on the table to pay for their wine. “Get something to eat, and then rest, d’Artagnan. You too, Porthos.”  
  
D’Artagnan nods gratefully, but Porthos grabs Athos’ forearm before he can leave.  
  
“This ain’t your fault,” he insists, again.  
  
Athos doesn’t respond, but he tilts his head in acknowledgement, preferring to reserve that judgement for himself at a later time. The gesture seems to appease Porthos, and he releases his grip on Athos’ arm and leans back. D’Artagnan raises an eyebrow at the both of them, but doesn’t say anything until he thinks Athos is out of ear-shot.  
  
“What was that all about?” d’Artagnan whispers harshly, when Athos is at the base of the stairs.  
  
Athos doesn’t linger long enough to hear Porthos’ reply.  
  


❧

  
  
It takes a great effort not to react to Aramis’ pallor when Athos enters the room and sees his friend unconscious on the bed. Aramis looks awful; his skin is horribly pale, and he looks like he’s got dark circles under both eyes. His hair is stringy with sweat, some of the dark curls plastered to his forehead. His middle is swathed in white bandages that have a little red spotting through where they cover the wound. The air feels heavy and thick, and carries the scent of deep illness.  
  
The surgeon stands, wiping his hands on a cloth as Athos enters the room. “I presume you’re another of his friends?” the man asks.  
  
“Athos,” Athos says, by way of greeting.  
  
“Gilles Delaporte.” He sticks out a hand. Athos shakes it firmly, relieved to find that the man’s hands are steady and sure. “Your friend here is a fighter,” he says, motioning to have Athos sit with him. “This is a serious wound, but in some ways he was lucky, aside from being stabbed in the first place. The blade hit him at an angle. He isn’t clear of death yet, but if he survives the night, he should make it—barring infection and fever, of course.”  
  
D’Artagnan had said as much, but Athos is relieved all the same to hear it from a third party. “I am glad to hear he’s still fighting.”  
  
“That young man that was up here helping earlier—quite a competent assistant, I must say,” Delaporte adds, looking thoughtfully at the door. “I could tell he was nervous and worried, but he had steady hands. Looks like he’s helped tend to wounds before. He didn’t even flinch when I had him help with the ligature of a heavily-bleeding vessel.”  
  
Athos’ chest constricts, because he knows Aramis has been teaching d’Artagnan the finer arts of field medicine over the last few months. It’s both relieving and alarming to hear that Aramis’ tutelage has paid off so far.  
  
“Aramis has been teaching him,” Athos explains, nodding towards the bed. “He’s usually the best at tending to us when we’re injured.”  
  
Delaporte’s eyes soften in sympathy. Gently, he says, “I suppose now you will have the opportunity to return the favor. Should he survive the night and any infection, he will take some time to heal.”  
  
“Is there anything we can do to help him?” Athos asks.  
  
“Keep him cool, if you can. Check the wound a few times a day for swelling and excessive redness—if it’s hot to the touch, you should be especially concerned, as that’s also a sign of infection. Reapply the salve in the jar on the stand there twice a day, it will help. Try to get him to keep down some broth,” Delaporte says. He stands and begins to pack up his instruments. “He will need all the strength he can gather. Call for me if he worsens.”  
  
“Thank you,” Athos says around his tightening throat.  
  
When the surgeon leaves, Athos grasps Aramis’ limp hand, unable to hide his flinch at how cold Aramis’ fingers are. Placing the cool limb between both his hands, he tries to will some warmth into his friend, swallowing down the guilt that’s climbing fiercely up the back of his throat, thick as bile.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Athos says, words filling the silence between them with wavering sincerity. “This shouldn’t have happened. I shouldn’t have goaded you—it was uncalled for.”  
  
The silence is heavy with Aramis’ strained breaths, and Athos sighs, leaning forward to press his forehead against his hands, the iciness of Aramis’ fingers soothing against his warm brow. This is a huge mess, and if Aramis recovers, Athos knows he has to reconsider his approach to handling Aramis’ indiscretion at the convent. Taking it out on him in a petty dare clearly isn’t the best path.  
  
He recalls their conversation at the convent, about the path Aramis nearly took to become a priest. The queen’s rosary still hangs around Aramis’ neck, tucked out of the way of the bandages, and Athos begins to wonder if only Aramis is at fault here. He doesn’t dare voice the accusation aloud, but in his heart, it leaves a dark and messy gash upon his morale.  
  
Freeing one of his hands from Aramis’, he reaches for the rosary, turning it in curious fingers, before he takes it in a fist and begins to pray to a God he feels that he scarcely knows. The Latin feels rusty and strained, coming from his lips, but it’s all he can think to say to fill the silence.  
  
He prays for Aramis. He prays for France. And most fervently, he prays for forgiveness.  
  
Perhaps he imagines it, but he thinks he feels Aramis’ fingers twitch in his grasp, and it gives him hope (that he doesn't deserve).  
  


❧


	5. Treville

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Augh sorry for the wait! I have plenty of excuses ranging from work to social/familial obligations to working on yet another Musketeers fic, but truthfully half my problem was trying to write Treville. I'm still not sure I got him, but here goes! (Coming to a close soon on this, anywhere from one to three more chaptery things.)

Although he isn’t prone to showing it, Treville worries. But worry is seen as weakness, and that is something he cannot ever allow his men (or especially the Cardinal, for that matter) to see. He knows that the second he shows any sign of his weakness, it’ll be his men who pay for it.   
  
So when a wide-eyed, terrified youth delivers an urgent letter from “a Musketeer named Athos,” Treville lets the familiar mask of indifference slide into place, overriding the growing knot of panic in his gut. Something has gone terribly wrong, or Athos would have delivered the message himself.   
  
Treville thanks the lad with a few coins, and quietly retreats to his office to read the message.   
  
The second that he sees how hasty Athos’ typically neat penmanship is, he knows the news isn’t good. The words are scrambled, as per protocol for missions, but Treville isn’t looking forward to reading the fully deciphered message.   
  
Above all, Treville hates it when his worries are completely founded.   
  
Although Athos spared him the details, it’s pretty clear to Treville from the brief message that something horrible has happened.   
  
_Culprit discovered but got away. Man down. Staying at an inn one block east of the Filles-Dieu house on Rue Saint-Denis, rooster-shaped sign._   
  
Treville’s chest feels tight, and he tugs absently at the collar of his coat. The message doesn’t say who is injured, or how badly, but it’s clear that it’s bad enough that they let the suspect get away. And the fact that Athos even mentions a location means that this is a visitation request only emphasizes the gravity of the situation.   
  
It’s always a request when it comes from Athos, but because he asks so rarely, Treville can hardly stomach the thought of denying it.   
  
He burns the letter, draws up orders for the first lieutenant he comes across, and packs a few items before he heads to the stable.   
  
“Jacques, tack up my horse,” he tells the stable boy.   
  
“Aye, sir.”   
  
It’s a fairly short ride from the garrison to the Filles-Dieu house, and from there it only takes a few moments to track down the inn. There are murmurings around him as people on the street openly stare at his pauldron, and he catches a few whispers about a musketeer who had been badly wounded—or had died, according to some—at the inn.   
  
He quickly dismounts and has the inn’s stable boy handle his horse. Striding with purpose into the lobby, the innkeeper looks up abruptly from his work, eyes widening at the sight of another musketeer visiting his business.   
  
“I assume you’re here about one of your men,” the innkeeper says by way of greeting. “Come, I will take you to their room.”   
  
Treville follows the innkeeper, trying to keep his concern off of his face. When the innkeeper gestures at a door down the hall, he abruptly bows and takes his leave. With a deep breath, Treville knocks quietly on the door.   
  
Porthos answers, looking haggard and exhausted, but wary, until he realizes who he’s looking at.   
  
“Captain,” he says wearily, the telltale scrape of metal echoing behind the door as his main gauche finds its way back into its scabbard. “Wasn’ expectin’ you.” He steps aside, leaving enough space for Treville to enter the room.   
  
The lighting in the room is dim, despite the bright sunlight outside, and the air is thick with the sickly-sweet smell of serious illness. Once Treville’s eyes fall on the figure in bed, he sucks in a harsh breath through his teeth.   
  
“Aramis,” is all he can manage to say.   
  
In all of Aramis’ years of service, the last time Treville saw him in such dire straits was just after the massacre in Savoy. Aramis had been wounded then, too—confused from the injury to his temple, and horribly weak with hunger and prolonged exposure to the cold. Now, Aramis looks small and frail in the bed they have him in, his skin so pale that it almost matches the bandages wrapped tightly around his middle. He is unconscious but visibly troubled in his respite, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids and his lips forming soundless words. Porthos quickly returns to Aramis’ side and removes a cloth from a bucket of cool water, wringing it out before gently dabbing Aramis’ face with it and placing it on his forehead.   
  
“How bad is it?” Treville asks, taking a seat at the foot of the bed.   
  
“Not good,” Porthos says, “but the physician believes he may yet survive, if he can overcome this fever.”   
  
Suddenly, Treville realizes what’s missing in the room. “Where are Athos and d’Artagnan?”   
  
“Trying to find leads before the trail goes too cold.” Porthos’ hands are restless, his eyes not leaving his injured friend. “Athos sent you a note, didn’t ’e.”   
  
Treville nods and says, “He didn’t tell me much, though. I only knew where to find you, and that someone had been injured.”   
  
“Well, I think we know who murdered the vicomte,” Porthos says, leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms across his chest. “Young woman, pretty thing. She went by ‘Charlotte Vasser’ when Aramis spoke with her, but it’s likely a fake name. We thought she might’ve been de Melun’s mistress, though now we’re not entirely sure of the nature of their relationship.”   
  
“She did this?” Treville asks.   
  
Porthos purses his lips, dipping his head into a nod. “Just about killed ’im. Still might.”   
  
“Aramis is a fighter—I have faith that he’ll pull through,” Treville says with more conviction than he thinks he actually feels.   
  
Hands still twitching between his knees, Porthos looks him straight in the eye and says, “For that woman’s sake, I damn well hope he does.”   
  
The fire in Porthos’ eyes promises vengeance and Treville can’t really fault the man for wanting it. He too does not prefer to stand idly by and watch his men felled on the job. After Savoy, it is harder and harder to justify allowing harm to befall the regiment without his interference.   
  
“You’ll have your justice, Porthos,” Treville promises. Leaning forward, he adds, “But in the meantime, this is a battle you’ll have to help him win.”   
  
Porthos purses his lips, eyes turning down to his restless hands.   
  
“Tell me what happened,” Treville says.   
  
Almost grudgingly, Porthos obliges.   
  


❧

The situation is less than ideal. After hearing Porthos’ side of the story, Treville knows that Athos is likely letting guilt eat him up. There has been a strange tension between Aramis and Athos for some months now, but neither one seems to be prepared to speak to it. As long as it doesn’t affect their duty—which, up until now, it hasn’t—he’s willing to let them work these things out between themselves.   
  
Their only lead may have escaped for the time being, but he thinks it’s only a matter of time before Athos and d’Artagnan are back on her tail. Treville will count his blessings. Aramis is still alive. Porthos, Athos, and d’Artagnan are unharmed. They actually _do_ have a lead, other than a rumor.   
  
There’s a quick intake of breath as Aramis stirs, and Treville leans over to gently place the back of his hand against the injured musketeer’s cheek. Still warm, but less so than earlier in the evening. Treville removes the lukewarm cloth draped across Aramis’ brow and dunks it in the bucket of water by the bed, before he wrings it out and replaces it.   
  
“Captain?”   
  
When Treville moves his hand away from Aramis’ forehead, he’s surprised to see Aramis staring straight back at him. His eyes are a little clouded with pain, but it looks like he’s lucid. Treville offers a thin smile.   
  
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he says, by way of greeting. “How are you feeling?”   
  
Aramis’ brow furrows, and he looks around in confusion. He almost tries to sit up, but the movement is quickly aborted with a wince and a hiss. “Like death warmed over,” he says slowly, voice rough with disuse and pain. The frown still remains.   
  
“You’ve been fighting a fever for the last few days,” Treville explains. “Porthos is resting, and Athos and d’Artagnan are out looking for leads.”   
  
It takes a few moments, but Treville can tell when the gears finally click into place in Aramis’ mind about half a second before Aramis’ eyes widen in realization. Before Aramis can sit up and do himself any harm, Treville already has a firm hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.   
  
“Trust me, you don’t want to be sitting up in your condition,” Treville warns.   
  
“ _Charlotte_ —”   
  
“They’re already after her.” The words don’t register immediately, but when they do, tension abruptly leaves Aramis’ shoulders. “It’s all right. They’ve got it under control—you should rest.”   
  
Aramis sags like a puppet with its strings cut, breathing harshly through his nose and reaching a hand hesitantly toward his wounded side. His fingers hover on the bandages near the injury, but he doesn’t touch it, and instead grits his teeth.   
  
“Hurting?”   
  
Aramis looks almost regretful, but he nods tersely. Treville reaches for the small vial of laudanum left on the stand next to the bed and helps Aramis swallow a small dose. He looks like he wants to say something, but his eyelids are drooping, so Treville simply settles him back down and smoothes the covers over him.   
  
“Sleep. We’ll be here when you wake,” Treville promises.   
  


❧

Treville is called away on business before he can make good on his promise, but he makes sure Porthos has orders to send word if anything changes. It is with great regret that Treville takes his leave, but as he watches Porthos gently care for his friend, the worry that had been churning furiously in his gut finally settles with the knowledge that Aramis will pull through. His friends will make sure of it.   
  


❧


	6. Aramis + Athos

It’s frustrating, Aramis thinks, that he is as weak as a newborn kitten, even after nearly a week of heavily enforced bed rest. Every movement comes at a price—from the sharp ache of his stomach muscles, to the stiffness in his back and limbs from lack of exertion. He’d forgotten how many movements required his abdomen to cooperate; even breathing hurts. He can barely sit up without assistance, and it’s grating on his nerves and his pride that he has had to rely so heavily on his friends during his convalescence.

Or, rather, mostly Porthos and d’Artagnan. D’Artagnan and Athos were able to apprehend the young courtesan within four days’ time, and since then, d’Artagnan has been by daily, almost as if he’s trading shifts with Porthos in handling Aramis’ care. Aramis hasn’t seen much of Athos, though Porthos assures him that Athos has been by—typically while Aramis is (conveniently) asleep.

Well. In all fairness, Aramis is sleeping a fair amount. He has never felt the need for so many naps during the day, but when the simple act of sitting up and eating drains his energy like a sieve, he doesn’t have much of a choice—his body makes the decisions for him. But that doesn’t excuse Athos’ deliberate absence. Aramis knows guilt when he sees it (or when he doesn’t see it, in this case), especially since he’s carried so much of it himself. He also knows Athos. Aramis’ own frustrations aside, he’d be more than happy for the opportunity to reassure Athos that this isn’t his fault.

When Aramis is finally declared well enough to travel back to the Musketeers’ garrison, once again, Athos is nowhere to be found. Aramis isn’t too surprised, but he’s a little disappointed.

“Everything all righ’?” Porthos asks him, once he’s loaded into the back of a wagon.

Aramis nods and attempts a smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Porthos looks doubtful, but he doesn’t press—yet. He may have questions later.

Aramis sighs, and then winces as the wagon jerks forward with a creaking lurch.

The trip across town in reality isn’t long, but Paris’ bad roads have Aramis grimacing at every divot in the streets; the trip might as well be to the coast and back. By the time they reach the garrison, Aramis feels shaky and sore and unsteady. Porthos shoulders more of his weight than he’d like to admit to as they make their way to Aramis’ lately-neglected quarters.

When Aramis and Porthos enter, though, the room doesn’t appear as neglected as he’d thought it would be. The windows are open, airing out the room, and it looks like someone took the time to change his linens and sweep the floors. Aramis raises an eyebrow in Porthos’ direction as he settles down on the edge of the bed.

“Didn’ want you t’come back to a mess,” Porthos explains with a shrug. “D’Artagnan and Serge did most of the work.”

“Ah,” Aramis replies. “Well, I am grateful—you know how much I hate cleaning.”

Porthos grins, turning to light a few of the candles before helping Aramis strip off his boots and doublet. Once Aramis is fully settled into the bed, he sighs in contentment as his sore body relaxes into the familiar pillow and backboard. Reaching out blindly for one of the books he knows should be on the nightstand, he catches Porthos’ hand instead.

“You should rest,” Porthos says.

“That’s all I’ve been doing.”

Porthos snorts. “That’s because you need it. Your body’s been through it, my friend. The more you rest, the sooner you’ll be back on your feet again.” He squeezes Aramis’ fingers. “Look, I’ll wake you in a bit with some lunch. How’s that sound?”

Aramis hums in agreement, already half asleep. He barely registers when Porthos removes his hand and adjusts the blankets around him, and doesn’t recall when Porthos leaves.

❧

The platform he’s resting on is made with rough wood. Pressing his palms, he pushes himself upright, and realizes that he’s at the gallows. The executioner stands next to an empty noose, black hood over his head obscuring his features. Hands grab on to his arms, dragging him up to the box underneath the noose. He struggles as they fit it around his neck and tighten it.

“They’ll hang you,” the hooded man says, “and then they’ll hang me for letting it happen.”

Then there’s another noose that’s being fitted around the executioner’s neck, and the hood comes off to reveal Athos’ accusing green eyes staring straight through him.

Aramis tries to apologize, but the words are stuck in his throat, held in place by the noose about his neck. The more he struggles to speak, the tighter the noose becomes around his neck. A sharp pain drags his attention down to his side, where he sees his own knife buried into his flesh, his blood spreading across his shirt.

“Wake up, Aramis,” Athos says, blood bubbling from between his lips as his noose pulls taut.

There’s a part of his subconscious that knows he’s dreaming, but Athos’ voice is so real—

“Aramis! _Wake up!_ ”

Aramis’ eyes fly open, gasping for breath as his eyes land on Athos, hovering over his head and gripping his shoulders. His mind is having trouble making the transition from dream to reality, not recognizing a roof over his head instead of a grey sky, and he swallows, finally loosening the words from his throat.

“I’m so sorry, Athos—I didn’t mean to get you hanged. S-Sorry, _sorry_ —”

“ _Shh_ , Aramis,” Athos says, tightening his grip on Aramis’ shoulders. “You’re dreaming. Deep breaths through your nose, in, out, nice and easy—yes, that’s it. Just relax. It was a nightmare, nothing more.”

Once Aramis realizes that there isn’t a noose around his neck, and that yes, he _can_ breathe, he finally breaks loose from his reverie and notices that he’s back in his room, and that the light outside is starting to dim. He keeps following Athos’ instructions to tame his harsh breathing, and slowly blinks back up at his friend, whose brow is furrowed in concern.

“Athos?”

Athos closes his eyes and sighs, his forehead relaxing as his grip loosens from Aramis’ shoulders. “You’re back,” he says, relieved.

“What happened?” Aramis asks, trying carefully to sit up, but wincing with a gasp as his injury warns him against moving too quickly.

“Nightmare. Here, let me help you,” Athos says softly, hands going behind Aramis’ back. Once Aramis is upright, Athos hands him a mug with a strong-smelling herbal brew, encouraging him to drink it. “This should help with the pain a little. Serge will be up with dinner soon.”

Aramis makes a face at the bitter taste, but obediently drinks the whole thing down. “Where’s Porthos?” Aramis asks suddenly. “He was supposed to wake me in time for lunch.”

Athos almost looks a little hurt, but says, “You were resting so deeply that Porthos didn’t want to wake you; he was called away on an errand for the king. I suppose you’ll have to make do with me, for now. D’Artagnan should be by soon.”

Cursing himself quietly when Athos goes to stand, Aramis reaches out and catches his hand, halting his progress. “Athos,” he says, pleading. “That’s not what I meant. Please don’t go—I haven’t seen you in days.”

Athos looks like he wants to pull away, but he’s hesitating—and after a moment, he finally sits back down in the chair that’s been pulled next to Aramis’ bed.

“I’ve been here,” Athos says, defensively and almost petulantly.

Aramis pins him with a _look_. “And how would I know that if you’ve only been by while I’m sleeping?”

“You’ve been sleeping a lot.”

Aramis sighs, because this isn’t going anywhere, at this stage. “Granted, though I assure you it’s hardly intentional. Stomach wounds and subsequent infections tend to take a lot out of a man.”

The comment was intended to be light-hearted, but as Athos’ face crumples, Aramis knows that his instinct was dead-on from the start.

“Athos,” he says, laying a hand on Athos’ knee. “I don’t blame you for this.”

Leaning back in the chair, Athos snorts. “Maybe you should. If I hadn’t goaded you—”

“We needed the information, and you were absolutely right—I’m the one with the most experience when it comes to understanding the fairer sex,” Aramis says loftily. “Unless you’d beg to differ, and then we may have a disagreement on our hands.”

A wry grin twitches up the edges of Athos’ lips, but it’s brief. “It still doesn’t excuse the fact that my intentions weren’t right,” he says, seriously. “You asked me, back at the convent, if we were okay. At the time, I truly thought we were—but then after the King’s announcement, when you spoke with her afterwards _in spite_ of the danger—”

Aramis sighs, raising his hand in the air to cut off his friend’s explanation. “You don’t need to elaborate, because you were right. I know I was reckless,” he says. “It was unwise, especially with prying eyes and ears so close at hand.”

“That still doesn’t—”

“ _Athos_.” Aramis looks down at his hands. “You, above anyone else, have a right to be angry with me for what happened. Yes, what I did, I did out of love—that much is true. But I didn’t think of the consequences, of who else I was endangering. I haven’t been myself lately, and it’s putting all three of us in danger. And for that, I truly am sorry.”

Athos blinks at him, and shakes his head. “You’re a bloody idiot, Aramis—here I am, trying to apologize, and you’re the one who’s apologizing to _me_.”

“I guess that makes us both idiots, then?” Aramis says lightly. “Look, I promise to be more like myself and to try to keep my… _indiscretions_ to a minimum—and at my level,” he adds at Athos’ raised eyebrow. “But your half of the bargain is that you have to stop blaming yourself for what happened—both at the convent, and with Charlotte. If I’d had my wits about me, I would’ve discovered sooner that she was a problem—clearly, my skills are becoming rusty.”

“I’m going to pretend, that by saying this, you mean that you’re not going to try to reclaim your title as the Musketeers’ most notorious womanizer,” Athos says wryly.

Aramis plasters his best innocent expression on his face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, my friend,” he says in mock offense.

Athos’ grin makes Aramis’ heart feel lighter than it has in months.

“So, are we _actually_ good now?” he asks, after a moment.

“Yes,” Athos says. “Yes, we are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took me so long to finish! I was having a rough time trying to figure out how to get Aramis and Athos to finally talk it out (or verbally hug it out, w/e...), but I finally sat down today and made it happen since I had some time and motivation, for once!
> 
> Thank you to everyone who read, kudos'd, and left kind comments--I appreciate every single one of them! :)


End file.
